


Do you want a pizza my heart?

by DarkWaterFalls



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Baking, Cooking Lessons, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 10:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5963614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkWaterFalls/pseuds/DarkWaterFalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric is a food writer and baking show personality who has come to town to win over some hearts and minds, not realising that he's about to be won over himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you want a pizza my heart?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sajee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sajee/gifts).



> This is for sajee, who I'd personally like to thank for their most recent zimbits fic, which was an A+ piece of art that I was really excited over whenever they updated it!
> 
> I thought of the pun title, then the pun unfortunately stuck. Whoops.
> 
> Slightly spoilery notes at the end.

When Eric arrives at the exhibition centre on Friday things are already in full swing. There are ovens blazing out heat, the air smells sweet with fruit and confectionary, and – as he lifts his feet carefully, he realises – the floor is already sticky with spilled samples. _Lord_ , he thinks, _it’s worse than a college bar in here._ Noisy, crowded, and – albeit somewhat pleasantly – smelly.

 

The food festival started on Thursday, and will last until Sunday. He’d had prior commitments during the week, several interviews and signing a deal for his new set of recipe books, so he’d agreed to run his _Introduction to Pastry_ course on the Saturday and Sunday. It’s been one of the big pulls of the weekend, tickets to his talks had booked out very quickly, and three quarters of the places on his eight-person-to-one three hour afternoon class had been auctioned for charity. The rest were due to be raffled over the weekend, two on Saturday morning and two on Sunday.

 

For now he just shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets, tucks his VIP pass back into his back pocket, tugs his cap further down over his fairly distinctive haircut and dips through the crowd to look at the stalls. He doesn’t grab many free samples, he avoids eye contact with people as much as possible, but he takes notes on his phone of a few companies and products to look up later.

 

There are positives and negatives to being smaller sometimes. He doesn’t get noticed very much if he keeps quiet and keeps his head down, but unfortunately when he begins to get peckish in the late afternoon he finds it difficult to attract anyone’s attention to grab some food samples. His stomach audibly grumbles and Eric considers giving up for the day and making a break for his hotel and the room service that he knows he can order.

 

But, just as he turns to leave, his nose catches the lovely sweet-savoury-satisfying smell of freshly baking pizza. He’s probably very hungry, but he swears he can smell the garlic-and-herbs of a fresh tomato sauce and the punch of perfectly baked bread. He turns around, looking for the source of the smell and starts to follow his nose towards a knot of people surrounding a stand.

 

Eric can feel the heat that’s being thrown off from the stand, both from the crowd of people and the massive pizza oven that’s been placed against the back wall of the hall. People are engaging animatedly as a man and woman hand out flyers and samples together, chatting about the business they’re promoting. Eric squirms his way to the front and gets his hands on a leaflet, and mouths out the title. Zimmermann Pizzeria - family run since 1956. He frowns down at the text, it doesn’t sound like a very traditionally Italian name, but the crowd seem to be going wild for it, so he guesses he shouldn’t judge.

 

He looks up onto the raised platform to watch the person making the pizzas. He’s younger than the pair scouting the crowd, probably their son, going by the dark hair he shares with the older man, and Eric watches him appreciatively. They’ve got cameras and screens set up so people can see what he’s doing from different angles, and he works with the effortlessness of someone who’s done this thousands of times before. He flours the surface, divides the dough by eye and pushes out each base with perfect ease. He grabs for the next piece of dough as the other person on the stage catches his attention with a question and Eric becomes mesmerised with the man’s hands. He isn’t even looking, but the dough is being flip-flopped, back and forth, over and under in his hands. He spins it absently between his outstretched fingers, still chatting away, the dough stretching perfectly, before tossing it absently down on the counter to tweak the edges before handing it over for topping and baking. 

 

Eric’s eyes trace the whipcord muscles of his arms admiringly and sighs mentally when he slaps his hands together to shake off the excess flour. The man then pulls a towel from his belt to mop his face as he turns away from the heat of the ovens, wiping away smatterings of flour that had settled on him as he’d worked. He reaches for a water bottle by the side and Eric watches the bob of the man’s Adam's apple as he drinks.

 

When the woman – blond, beautiful, smiling widely – makes her way past again, Eric manages to drag his eyes away and snag a small slice of the pizza. He lost the tug for a nicer slice, so it’s mostly crust, with a decent smear of sauce and just a smattering of cheese.

 

It must be the hunger getting to him, because he thinks that it’s probably one of the best pizzas he’s ever had, at least the best this year. The crust is perfectly golden and resistant as he bites into it, the dough is rich, and the sauce has the punch of fresh tomatoes, perfectly balanced with the roasted garlic and oregano. As he finishes the small slice, he licks the last of the sauce off his thumb – plotting how to re-create it in his mind - and raises his eyes again towards the dais.

 

The man is watching him with a raised eyebrow, water bottle half-raised to his lips, and Eric feels himself blush and look guiltily away. He sucks in a quick breath as he removes his thumb from his mouth and licks his lips. He can’t be looking at him, Eric thinks, so he glances up into the icy eyes again before catching the hint of a smirk on the man’s lips as he - _honest to goodness_ \- winks at Eric.

 

 _Oh Lord,_ Eric thinks, mind stumbling over the man in front of him, _what should I do?_

 

But the man’s attention gets caught by his partner on the stall, and he drags himself back to the dough without a second glance in Eric’s direction.

 

Eric stands for a moment, red-faced, torn between embarrassment, disappointment and an unexpectedly fast streak of arousal. Then he turns and picks his way through the crowd around the stall, feeling frustrated with himself. What else was he expecting would happen?

 

&

 

The next morning dawns bright and early for Eric, with a quickly consumed granola bar and a smoothie before he starts prepping ingredients, then coffee once he has some time to pause and plan for the rest of the day. He’s reviewing his presentation slides, feeling perfectly content, admiring the tidily stacked recipe cards, all ready for distribution. Their pre-prepped mini pies and pastry hor d’oeurvres are neatly lined up on trays, all ready for baking, so Eric feels like he can breathe for the first time that morning.

 

His presentation program is ready to go, done up already in hour or hour-and-a-half blocks depending on what he’s baking. He always does as much ingredient prep before the show as is possible so he can get on with showing the crowd the procedure, and then they can get whatever he’s baking into the oven in enough time for the crowd to have a taste before they leave. Baking time is taken up by a Q&A, then a signing session if needed. It’s obvious that not everyone will get a piece of exactly whatever Eric’s prepared that session, so they make sure that they have plenty ready beforehand, to be baked at the same time to ensure there’s enough. Any extra gets handed out to venue and catering staff to eat or take away with them.

 

He takes a deep breath before he walks onto the stage in the main auditorium that morning, mentally preparing for the rollercoaster of a weekend to properly start. This isn’t where he’s doing his talks, and he’s glad of it, as the room is huge, echoing and cold. It’s so early, the room is barely a third filled, most of the tired-looking ticketholders clutching their early morning coffees and pastries that are being plied on the stalls outside.

 

Eric’s just here to draw the first two winners for the weekend classes, so he’s happy to spend as little time as possible on the stage, but he waves and smiles at some of the people in the crowd as he’s introduced. He draw the two names, the first being an _Ethel Smith_ , which draws a shriek from the crowd and a fluttering of hands from the woman’s companions. Eric gives her a smile and a wave, before moving to draw the second name.

_Alicia Zimmermann._

 

There’s no similar howling response from the crowd this time, only a polite, restrained, smattering of applause. The announcer confirms that Alicia will be contacted and notified of her winning the draw.

 

Eric sees, in his mind’s eye, the flash of blonde hair passing before him yesterday and touches the arm of one of the staff assisting with the draw. “I think…” he murmurs, hand over his mic, “That’s she’s one of the exhibitors?”

 

The assistant – Grace - nods quickly, curls flying, and asks, “D’you know which stall?”

 

&

 

The talks fly by in a blur of ingredients and questions. Eric can feel the remains of pastry going crumbly underneath his fingernails – he hadn’t had enough time to scrub his hands as thoroughly as he’d like before going into the Q&A - as he bats back the second question of the day about his relationship status. He has a standard response down by now, even if his hands still sweat when answering it. Polite laugh, then a comment about how he’s so busy nowadays that he doesn’t have time to date very many boys.

 

(He always notices the grandmothers in the audience, watches them as their faces fall at the realisation. Eric always wonders at that, as he’s never really been quiet about his orientation, but it’s true that he doesn’t shout it from the rooftops that much. As he said, he doesn’t tend to have the time.)

 

After the questions, it’s back to admire the finished results coming out of the oven. Thankfully they’ve been successful with their allocated ovens this year and – under the sharp, watchful eye of Sadie, his assistant-slash-lifesaver – everything comes out looking perfect, nary a burnt edge in sight.

 

They’re a well-oiled machine at this malarkey now, pie packing boxes are set out, with the recipe cards and book coupons ready to be placed into the accompanying Bitty’s Bakery branded bags. Eric will shake everyone’s hand as they leave, have a quick word, they’ll get a pie boxed up, bagged and get to have a good look at the stall selling his merchandise as they’re encouraged to file out of the room.

 

Eric likes meeting people, but is glad of the system they have in place. It means that people don’t have the time to monopolise him, but still get a chance to brag about the meeting. It also helps clear the room relatively quickly, which the cleaning staff are very appreciative of. The cleaning staff get first pick of the pies that are left, Eric always makes sure of that.

 

Eric is expertly extracting his hand from a middle aged man, waving him forwards to the pie bench with forced cheer, when he turns to see that the blue-eyed pizza maker is next in line.

 

 _Goodness,_ Eric thinks, reaching for his hand automatically. He registers the cool, firm skin against his fingers, a sure and stable handshake. Eric looks up into the man’s face and stammers out a, “Thank you.”

 

The man smiles, a small twitch of the mouth, and says, “Keep an eye on my Mom this afternoon, eh?”

 

Then he’s gone. And Eric’s glad he held that together, even if he would be forgiven for babbling at that face, that twinkle he swore he saw in those eyes. It was barely seconds, but Eric holds it in his head as he turns to the next person in line.

 

&

 

Eric breaks for lunch. And by lunch, he means a fancy soup-and-sandwich combo (smoked pork and grain mustard on sourdough; carrot, honey and ginger soup) that a runner grabbed him while the group starts reviewing the attendants for that afternoon’s masterclass. Sadie plops herself down beside him and starts to pick at her own sandwich, with Matt already doodling on his paper soup cup on his other side.

 

Each person was asked to fill in a short questionnaire, discussing their abilities, allergies, favourite flavours, important food accomplishments and personal food targets for the future.

 

Eric rolls a hum out from his throat as he folds down the corner of one of the sheets and hands it over to Sadie, “Number 3 is a vegan, but will handle and bake with animal products, so we should be okay.”

 

Sadie sighs happily, “Good, he read the statement about the course before he bid.”

 

“It’s a pity he won’t be able to eat or try any of it though.” Eric says, dejectedly. “I’ll make sure to get him some of the cards for alternative ingredient recipes. I’d hate to see him leave empty-handed with skills he can’t use for himself.”

 

He stretches, takes another mouthful of soup, then turns back to the sheets in silence.

 

Sadie gets up to get the table more coffee, thunking down the milk jug hard beside Eric. “Thank fuck, no nut allergies this time though.” She offers happily.

 

Eric nods in agreement. He hates finalising their plans on the fly like this, and he _technically_ isn’t changing anything this time, but they’d been blindsided by a nut allergy before so are now wary enough to review and plan ahead for anything unexpected again.

 

There are varying levels of ability in the attendants, including a sixteen year old self-confessed novice who just started baking a few months ago. _Birthday present,_ Eric thinks, not unkindly, looking at the date of birth. The girl – Aisha - looks smart, if nervous, in the accompanying photo of her school uniform and matching headscarf.

 

Alicia Zimmermann looks slightly tired and her pale blonde hair makes her appear washed-out in the unflattering lighting of her photo, obviously taken that morning. But her eyes are that sharp, beautiful blue that Eric noticed from her son, so Eric can see the resemblance leaking through. The bio is as Eric expected. She cooks a lot, mentions the pizzeria, can bake bread, but doesn’t tend to make sweet things. She’d like to learn things to expand out the dessert menu they provide, give it a more personal twist, because she feels like it isn’t currently as impressive as the rest of the restaurant.

 

Eric nods to himself over her profile before handing it on to Sadie, he can help with that.

 

The final profile is the other winner, Ethel, who looks and sounds exactly like every baking grandmother that Bitty’s ever came across in his long baking career. From her application Eric now already knows three of her grandchildren’s names.

 

Matt leans over to look at the application, then snorts before getting up, “Typical,” he says, “Charm the pants off her Bits!” He exclaims, before walking away, chucking his cup in the bin and then calling back, “I’m gonna make sure all the butter is out of the fridge and set out.”

 

Eric smiles at the nickname, then puts the profile down to stretch his arms above his head until his back clicks. After a large yawn, he smiles and asks the table, “So, we ready then?”

 

&

 

They’re mostly ready.

 

By that he means that the things that go wrong are nothing to do with their preparations going awry.

 

Someone burns themselves during frangipane tart prep by grabbing at hot tray that’s just been taken from the oven, and Aisha the teenager reacts so quickly she elevates herself to lofty heights in Eric’s eyes. In the blink of an eye the teen has manhandled the woman to the closest sink and got her hand under the cold tap.

 

Eric signals to Matt, who nods and bolts for a first aider, then gets to the sink and places a hand on her small shoulder. “Quick reactions, well done.”

 

Aisha smiles softly, still holding the shocked woman’s elbow firmly, then says, “I could see it happening.”

 

Eric squeezes her shoulder, then praises, “You still did magnificently.”

 

Once the woman has been patched up by a first aider, and the pear and frangipane tarts are in the oven, they start on the prep for the peanut butter éclairs. Eric is very carefully skirting the benches, checking up on people and getting ready to answer any questions. He avoids the eye of the man who’s been hitting on him all afternoon, because he knows that if he goes over he’ll get caught up whilst being polite and have to work hard to extract himself from the conversation. Sadie catches his eye across the benches and steps into the man's line of sight with a smile. Lifesaver, again.

 

The man is also nowhere near as attractive as Alicia Zimmermann’s son. And Eric is firmly pretending to himself that he isn’t touching that thought with a bargepole.

 

He steps up to Alicia, who is concentrating hard at piping out her chocolate choux pastry, places his elbows down on her bench and watches with his chin in his hands as she concentrates on each piece of dough. She looks up at him once she’s placed the piping bag aside and asks, “Didn’t your mother tell you to not put your elbows on the table when you were younger?”

 

Eric grins and says, “Nah, it was my Moo-Maa, mama’s mama, and she usually just swept our arms out from under us.”

 

Alicia’s eyebrows shoot up, “And you still didn’t learn.”

 

Eric straightens and shrugs, then placing his hands down on the bench saying, “Well, I learned not to do it around her, which is technically the same thing.”

 

Alicia carefully transfers her éclairs to the oven, then sets the timer before answering Eric, “Why do I get the feeling that little boys all learn the same type of lessons?”

 

“Probably,” Eric snickers, “D’you think your boy acts differently around you compared to others?”

 

“Probably,” Alicia mimics, then asks, “My boy? How do you know my Jack then?”

 

“Jack.” Eric says, pausing to savour the name, “Was here earlier. And I saw him at your stand yesterday.”

 

“Ah, yes.” Alicia says, a knowing smirk on her face, “So you saw Jack in action then? Enjoy it?”

 

Eric rolls his tongue around his mouth a little before answering, “It was definitely impressive,” he pauses and considers, “Pizza making was good too.”

 

Alicia lets out a small, delighted laugh, before starting to wipe down her bench and clean up ingredients. “Look at you, all blushy and smiley,” she grins, “Jack’d mentioned that he’d seen you too.”

 

Eric sinks his face into his hands, feeling how hot his face is against his fingers, and realises that he is probably blushing to his hairline. He’d been right. Jack had recognised him yesterday, and had known _exactly_ who he’d been winking at. He doesn’t know what to do with that information, so he straightens, shoving his hands into his pockets, and clears his throat before saying, “Right, so, professionalism.”

 

Alicia’s smirk is wicked. And Eric now painfully knows where Jack got his from.

 

But he soldiers on, clearing his throat and asking, “How would you change a recipe like this to serve it in a restaurant? How is this dough adaptable to other desserts?”

 

&

 

All the other attendees apart from Alicia had already left with their baking successes, and Eric was feeling content as he moved the final ingredients back into their store room. They’d managed to have a nice moment of reflection within the group about their experiences baking and why they’d continue to bake in future.

 

This is why he liked his job. It was busy, he very rarely stayed still for long, but it made him happy to work with others and help them progress. He’d briefly considered becoming a teacher before college, but he was happy with the path he’d chosen now, similar to that idea, but not the same.

 

Alicia was doing a final wipe down of her counter when he returned to the main room, shaking her head at Eric as he told her it was unnecessary. “I always do this at home, it makes things feel finished.” She says proudly. “Taught Jack to do it too. He always leaves the kitchen sparkling for when we come in in the mornings.”

 

“Does Jack always work late?” Eric asks.

 

Alicia smiles at him as she throws away the paper towel she’d been wiping with. She’d managed to get him to stop blushing about Jack and start asking questions in less than an hour and was understandably pleased. Eric had learned many things already. Jack had a history degree, liked hockey and supported the local team, was usually very strict with what he ate but was a sucker for anything pastry-based. And that Alicia was always worried about him. “He does the night shift as the manager, then does all the dough prep himself later.” She says, then snorts slightly, “He thinks we don’t know that he sneaks back into the kitchen frequently to make the pizza, but he’s good at it, it makes him happy, and he’s there for the front of house staff when it matters.”

 

“The question is,” Eric says slyly, “Does he get enough of the flour off in time to look respectable?”

 

Alicia honest to goodness giggles, moving to stand beside him, then says, “I have three words for you Eric, and they are: floury hand prints.”

 

Eric raises an eyebrow, “In inopportune places?”

 

Alicia nods sternly, then whispers conspiratorially, “I’ve never seen two little old ladies fight so hard to touch someone’s bum before.”

 

Eric collapses in a fit of giggles onto the now-clean countertop. “Oh, goodness,” he gasps.

 

“So,” Alicia says, smiling again. “Are you coming to meet my boy then?”

 

&

 

Eric follows Alicia into the space allocated for the Zimmermann family prep. He's carrying Alicia’s box of baking, including a couple of the leftover mini apple pies from the second talk. Alicia had lamented over them, because apparently Jack had already eaten his by the time Alicia had found him afterwards.

 

(“My own son! How could he betray me like that?”)

 

All Eric can hear as he goes through the door is the whirr of a mixer and the familiar clinking-crack of eggs being broken into a bowl. He can almost taste the flour in the air, thrown up from the mixer despite the covering on the industrial-sized bowl.

 

Jack’s there though, with flour in his hair, what looks like a dozen eggs in a glass bowl and a stack of plastic trays beside him. He catches Eric’s eye over his mother’s shoulder and groans, turning off the mixer and reaching an arm up to brush his hair out of his face with the back of a floury hand, before he asks, “What did you do, Mom?”

 

Eric places his box down on a clear stretch of bench near Jack and chirps, “Well, you did tell me to take care of her.”

 

Jack smiles softly at Eric, but turns his head to narrow his eyes at his mother before saying, “I said to keep an eye on her, I knew she’d do something like this.”

 

“Goodness,” Eric says, laying on his accent thick and placing a hand on his breastbone in mock shock, “Have I been manipulated into something?” he asks artfully.

 

“Oh no,” Jack says, groaning in horror, “You’re as bad as her, aren’t you?”

 

“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you mean.”

 

Alicia steps forward then, and pulls Jack down to kiss his cheek and murmur, “Thank you for freeing me up to go this afternoon, I really loved it.”

 

Jack has a light flush, high on his cheekbones, but he still smiles down at his mom, unabashedly happy and open. “Of course, anytime, you know that.”

 

“I was nicer than you.” Alicia adds accusingly.

 

“Oh!” Jack exclaims, confused. “What?”

 

“I brought you back what I baked, you should be thankful.”

 

Jack rolls his eyes, “I already told you that I’d waited for half an hour before I ate it!” He then looks over at Eric, face softening, and then says, “I’m sure I’ll be very thankful.”

 

It’s said very casually, but Eric can already feel his ears warming. He’s beginning to get the feeling that they’re both being played by Alicia, and everyone except him was fully aware of it up until this point. He drops his eyes from Jack’s to bite at his lip. Somehow he can’t bring himself to be annoyed, especially since Jack seems resigned to allowing Alicia to have her way. As if he’s used to her doing this a lot.

 

 _Ah_ , Eric thinks. He suddenly feels kind of sorry for Jack. He’d at least been able to escape from his mother’s attempts at matchmaking, Jack hasn’t been able to.

 

He looks up at Jack just as Jack says to Alicia, “Maybe you could let Eric show me?”

 

“Of course!” Alicia says happily, making her way past Eric to the box he’d carried, patting him on the arm as she passed. “I’ll just take the apple pies to Bob, and we can plan what we’re doing for dinner, okay?”

 

Jack looks exasperatedly at his mom’s back, before meeting Eric’s eyes with a small, shy smile.

 

Eric jumps as Alicia places her hand on his arm, and asks, “You’ll come for dinner with us, won’t you Eric?”

 

Eric watches as Jack presses his face into his floury palms out of the corner of his eye and hears him say a muffled, “Moooommm!”

 

Eric hesitates slightly, taken aback by Jack, “Uh,” he says, laughing delightedly, “I’d love to.”

 

“Wonderful,” Alicia says, “Stay out of trouble ‘til then, okay boys?”

 

Then she’s gone.

 

And both he and Jack are blushing massively at each other across the small prep space.

 

“I can’t believe she just did that,” Eric utters in disbelief.

 

Jack has his face out of his hands now, picking up a towel to wipe the spread flour from his face, he’s still pleasantly pink from the embarrassment. “I believe it,” he says solemnly, “She’s my worst enemy sometimes.”

 

“Ah,” Eric says, feigning suddenly gaining insight, “So she _has_ done this before.”

 

Jack’s tongue slips out to lick his lips and glance at Eric shrewdly as he leans back against the floury bench, scuffing a foot along the floor before confessing, “I specifically started taking the night shift at the restaurant to try and get her out of the habit of finding me dates.”

 

Eric’s eyebrows rise, and his mouth opens in an “oh” of surprise.

 

Jack folds the towel, something to do with his hands as he avoids Eric’s eyes, before continuing, “She’d insist I take the afternoon off, take the other person to get desserts, go to this place she wanted to scout to take my dad out for dinner…” Jack trails off, dropping the towel down at the bench beside him.

 

“Oh dear,” Eric says softly, smiling widely.

 

Jack looks up at Eric then, and his face softens, “Do you know what the worst part was though?” he asks.

 

Eric shakes his head.

 

Jack grins, widely, laughter in his eyes again, “She kept on bringing _women._ ” He said gleefully exasperated, “I had to explain, in the middle of an empty alley outside the restaurant.” Jack shakes his head. “That was probably the worst embarrassing moment of my teenage years, right there.” He mock shudders, “I think I still have flashbacks when I see that dumpster.”

 

“Did she stop after that?” Eric asks, already sure of the answer.

 

“Nope,” Jack says, popping on the p of the word and shaking his head. “She just started bringing guys. Right up until I moved out for college.”

 

Eric bites his lip to unsuccessfully hold in his grin. “Oh no.” he murmurs, leaning his hip against the countertop comfortably.

 

Jack creeps forwards, moving slowly towards him, smiling widely at him. “Oh yes.” He grimaces, then says, “I dodged it for a while by having a college boyfriend, but it came back full force when we split and I moved back here to work.”

 

Jack is close enough now that Eric has to tilt his head up slightly to look him in the eye. “Has she got better at choosing though?” Eric asks mischievously.

 

Jack casts his eyes down, over him quickly, then says softly, “I think she might have.”

 

The moment hangs in the air, tantalising and sweet, and Eric can almost taste the anticipation. He almost doesn't want to break it, wants to savour it as long as he can.

 

“Hey,” Eric whispers, conspiratorially, “D’you wanna go eat all her peanut butter éclairs as revenge?”

 

Jack’s face, slightly coy a moment before, splits uncontrollably into a massive grin. “God, you’re perfect.”

 

&

 

Jack somehow manages to get peanut butter crème pâtissière on his nose, and he quickly swipes it off with a thumb. It’s into his mouth before Eric can even register the idea of leaning forwards, into Jack’s space.

 

Jack can clearly see the idea form on his face though, he’s not-so-innocently grinning at Eric as he takes his thumb from between his lips.

 

&

 

Eric’s leaning into Jack space easily as he looks into the mixer, smelling the finished dough, catching the hint of the sourdough starter and desperately wants to try the mixture, to see if it tastes like it smells. Which, admittedly, isn’t amazing, but you could never accuse Eric of being unadventurous in his baking.

 

But Jack’d already warned him away from it, warning that his dough is always fortified with eggs. Bitty’s had food poisoning enough in his life to take the raw egg warning seriously, even if salmonella was unlikely.

 

Eric frowns at the dough, especially when Jack nudges him out of the way with his hip to cut half of the dough out with a plastic slicer. “It doesn’t…” he says, hesitating, “look right yet?”

 

Jack dumps the large lump of dough onto the floured bench and says, “You’d be right to say that.”

 

Eric moves closer to Jack’s side, and drawls out, “Aaaannnnddd?”

 

Jack smiles down at him, then huffs, “My dad finds it funny, but I like to do the last knead myself.”

 

“More control, I get that.” Eric says softly.

 

“Kinda superstitious, I suppose.” Jack acknowledges, digging his fingers in and beginning to knead in a steady, practiced rhythm.

 

“But you always know.” Eric says definitively. “It’s why I always make my own pastry, I never rely on someone else’s work.”

 

Jack gives him a small, soft smile, his face open and happy with Eric beside him, hands working away. As if he wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here. “It gets worse than that though.” He confides, “Do you want to know a secret?”

 

“Go on,” Eric whispers.

 

Jacks hands slow, and he leans down into Eric’s space. “I picked up most of this from my dad, it’s his fault really,” he murmurs. “The secret is that the sourdough starter is as old as I am, he started it the day I was born. He said it was to grow up along with me.”

 

“Really?” Eric squeaks.

 

“I’ll deny it if you say I told you, but yes.”

 

Eric pauses for a beat. “Does your mom comment that it’s more mature than you too?”

 

Jack just throws back his head and laughs.

 

&

 

Once Jack has kneaded the dough to his satisfaction, he portions it out into the proving trays, and then sets Eric to work with the second portion of dough. Eric’s done bread dough kneading before, knows the technique, but the texture of this dough is different, stretchier than he’s used to dealing with.

 

But he soldiers through.

 

And is promptly stopped by Jack, who cups his elbow and steps up behind him saying, “No, no, like this.” Jack’s pressed up behind him, cheek against his hair and breath against Eric’s ear as he murmurs, “More smoothly, with less force. You need to do it consistently.” Jack guides his hands, and Eric feels almost breathless with it, loves how strong Jack feels at his back.

 

Eric tries to concentrate, moving his hands under the direction of Jack, until Jack is just a warm weight at his back, his hands flat against bench, arms caging him in firmly.

 

“How does it feel?” Jack asks, breaking the silence.

 

“Uh,” Eric says, leaning back into Jack’s weight. “Good, I’d say.”

 

Jack presses back into Eric, and rolls his hips forward a little, pressing closer and running his nose along the curve of Eric’s ear. “Really, only good?”

 

Eric takes a shuddering breath in and sinuously rolls back into Jack, trying to get closer to Jack’s skin, Jack’s warmth. What he does get is enough space, enough space to turn around and get face to face with Jack, enough space to quickly be closed between them. Eric’s hands grip into Jack’s t-shirt and pull, and Jack easily follows. He’s not sure if he wants to pull Jack down or pull himself up to Jack, his only target is Jacks lips, and the thought of _closer,_ of closing down any space that could possibly be left between them.

 

The kiss starts soft enough, the shock of touch keeping them slow, but soon the rush of want and heated thoughts make Eric raise himself onto the tips of his toes and open his mouth to Jack, trying to throw himself further into the warmth, and wet, and heat of Jack.

 

Jack meets Eric halfway, leaning over him, tipping his head down and groaning into Eric’s mouth, into the sensation. He slides his hands down until he’s gripping Eric’s ass, half-lifting him and taking some of his weight. Eric takes the hint, and uses the support to throw himself up into Jack’s arms. Eric’s wraps himself around him, legs around his waist and ankles locking behind his back. Jack turns to press them against the opposite wall together, his grip on Eric allowing him the leverage to grind forwards like he wants to, like he’s been wanting to from the moment he stepped up behind him at the counter.

 

Standing there with him, seeing Eric’s serious expression, intent on the task at hand, had convinced Jack. If he hadn’t already been attracted to Eric, found him funny and warm, the respect and significance that he’d shown towards something so important to Jack would’ve cinched it. He’d been flushed with want, not only imagining pinning Eric to the counter, but imagining himself under Eric, how Eric’s strong hands would feel on Jack’s skin. He wanted to not only be closer, but wanted to breathe Eric in, be under his skin and be close enough to creep inside his mind.

 

Jack has always known that he never does anything by halves, so why would this be any different?

 

So he frees one hand and slips it underneath the back of Eric’s shirt, presses hard against the soft skin he finds there, before slipping it downwards to slide under the waistband of Eric’s jeans.

 

The kiss breaks, and Eric throws his head back against the wall to gasp in a few breaths, running his hands through Jack’s hair. Jack takes the opportunity to grind upwards again, and takes advantage of Eric’s exposed stretch of neck to kiss downwards and start sucking a bruise on the edge of an exposed collar bone. “Oh, god, Jack!” Eric gasps.

 

“Eric,” Jack moans, “What do you-“ he starts to ask, before being interrupted.

 

“Boys!” Alicia shouts in from outside, “Are you almost done?”

 

Eric squeaks, and then claps a hand over his mouth the muffle the sound, before looking down at a frozen Jack. “We’ll just be a minute!” Eric shouts, as Jack drops his head down onto Eric’s chest with a groan.

 

“Not fair,” Jack mutters petulantly, before stepping back slightly and allowing Eric to slide down onto his feet.

 

Eric catches his hand, guiding him back towards the counter. “C’mon, faster we get this done, the faster we get out of here.” He says, leaning up to peck Jack on the cheek.

 

&

 

They get the last of the dough plated up and into the prover for the morning, before Jack tugs Eric’s collar into place and does up another button to hide the edge of the hickey that Jack had started on in earnest.

 

Eric in return fixes the flour that he’d settled in Jack’s hair and down Jack’s front, and tugs his clothes into correct order, making them more presentable. Jack leans down to peck a small kiss onto Eric’s lips, barely there, barely a promise for more.

 

They plan to play it cool, Eric will follow Jack out, and they strike up a planned conversation about supply chains as they head towards Jack’s parents.

 

&

 

Jack’s mom smiles at both of them straight away. “Good, you’re both still alive,” Alicia says.

 

“We’re fine Mom,” Jack grumbles, stepping past her to grab his coat from his dad. Eric watches him appreciatively until-

 

“Goodness, Eric!” Alicia exclaims, “You’re as bad as Jack!”

 

And Jack turns in time to watch as she starts to brush flour off Eric’s jeans, Eric’s cheeks a blazing red accompaniment to his embarrassment.

 

Alicia’s brushing off flour, settled on Eric’s ass, in handprints.

 

Handprints in Jack’s exact size.

**Author's Note:**

> Items bakes by the course attendants are completely real and can be found in the following places: [Peanut Butter Eclairs](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/peanut_butter_clairs_72663) and [Pear and raspberry frangipane tart](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/pear_and_raspberry_15343)
> 
> The Zimmermann pizza recipe is based on my family recipe and I will fight you over this, don't think I won't.
> 
> Jack's pizza handling skills are based on the first forty seconds of [this video.](https://youtu.be/al0GJVLozO0) He can't do the rest, he's never tried and considers it a bit unhygienic and weird.


End file.
